National Itch
by woodbyne
Summary: They are people who are countries. Parts of their bodies represent different places on those counties. What lives in cities, in countries? And my goodness, doesn't that itch? Crack-fic. Drabble. Swearing. One shot. Enjoy.


**National Itch**

**I miss my sister. She's at camp right now, and she came up with this idea. I'm sorry about my other stuff. This is just a short crack-fic from the mind of an 11 year old. **

**Don't give me that "Why are you letting your 11-year-old sister watch Hetalia" look. She's my **_**sister**_**. We share a room. The damn child knows **_**everything. **_**And yet she remains utterly adorable. I miss her so much. **

The National Itch was a lot of things to a lot of different countries. To most of them, it was sexual.

America used the phrase when he needed to go to the bathroom. Instead of "answering nature's call," or, "going to the John," he said, "I've got a National Itch to scratch; later, dudes."

To England, it was a matter of needing a stiff drink.

To Belarus it meant that she was flipping through her bridal magazines again and was deciding whether Russia would look better in a bow tie or a tie-tie.

To Russia, it was the need to annex the nearest small country.

To Prussia it was the need to invade the nearest country's pants (or skirt, depending on the country.)

No one ever asked Canada what he used the phrase for, because no one could ever remember to, or find him when they did.

To Germany, it was the need to get out the whip and ball-gag.

To South Italy (North Italy didn't even know about it, so he couldn't apply it. For appearances sake, let's say it meant the need to make Pasta) it was the need to head butt that bastard Spain in his dopey face.

To Spain it either meant that he wanted a nap or that he wanted to hug Romano.

The second France started talking about his National Itch, the room cleared, because it generally meant that his rose was chafing and an orgy was about to ensue – whether you wanted it to or not.

The older nations knew it well. They had felt it when it was barely a tingle, and endured it through to the paraesthesia modern eras, when the advent of cortisone and antihistamines put an end to their troubles.

But there were certain times when all the medication in the world couldn't stop the burning itches. China suffered terribly, as did America, India, France, Germany, England, Spain and Japan.

It had been sometime in the late nineteen-fifties-early-sixties, when Alfred had been bed-ridden for about a month, tearing the skin from his flesh with clawed fingers that he started to wonder what it was_ exactly_, this _National Itch_.

The older nations had looked warily from one to the other when the personification of America started talking, with a fierce determination and worrisome amount of forethought, about _research, doctors,_ _experiments _and _tests_.

Brushing them off as old fogies too set in their ways to embrace the miracle of science, Alfred had endured skin-samples, grafts, blood-work and extensive poking and prodding by so-called experts. None of them found a thing wrong. The only conclusion that they could come up with, which made the American's cheeks flush an angry red, was that he needed to lose some weight.

This placated the other nations, who in truth had their suspicions and dearly wanted them to remain as such. England had looked to China and said,

"That lad is sticking his nose where it doesn't belong, and if he's not careful, it's going to get bit."

"I am afraid that you are correct, aru," the Asian nation said, sipping his tea (into which he had dissolved a Dazit tablet), "America's actions are rash. He will regret them."

Alfred was therefore treated with much caution when he burst into the world meeting yelling in his Hero Voice, "Hey, dudes! You'll never guess! My boys back at the lab have finally got a microscope strong enough to take a look at our skin properly! Ain't that rad?"

A collective groan greeted this statement, but once the meeting was over, they dutifully trekked over to the laboratory. With trepidation, the other nations hung back at the door while the fading Super Power marched boldly in and thrust his forearm beneath the lens.

Silence.

"No wa~ OH MY FUCK!" America screamed, pulling his arm out of the microscope, shrieking like a child and slapping at his skin like a man possessed.

"Holy fuck! Shit! People! Fucking people are~ Get them OFF! Fucking hell! People! Jesus! There are- AREN'T YOU GUYS GONNA HELP ME? I have fucking shit people all over me!" he screamed, still jumping about wildly.

The other nations looked down at their own appendages in horror, staring at their own skin as though it was going to start sprouting tentacles at any second. Which it might as well have, for all the fuss the American was making.

England resolved that once he was back across the pond, he was going to take a _long, hot_ bath.

**Yes, that was pure crack. Yes. I'm sorry. I have other shit to write, and I'm working on that. Writers block is a bitch, right? I haven't abandoned it yet, but when I get stressed, I become counterproductive. This is counterproductive. **

**~RutheLa**


End file.
